


It Keeps Me Up

by Phineasflynns



Series: Forgive and Forget AU [2]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, eventual OT4 - Freeform, forgive me I have sinned again, vivid descriptions of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phineasflynns/pseuds/Phineasflynns
Summary: Partner fic to Forgive and Forget.Ask and you shall receive. What follows is the unfortunate tale of what exactly happened to Paul, Patryk and Tord in Peru.





	

Tord sighs, grip tightening on the gun held in his hand. He hears a crash in the room next to him and grimaces, expression one of annoyance and defeat before he leaps out from behind the crate concealing his presence. The man in the room whirls, and before he can say a word Tord shoots him between the eyes. He crumples to the ground and Tord lifts his hand, activating the headset he’s wearing.

 

“Patryk, Paul.” he growls into it. “Where are you two!?”

 

“Apologies, Red Leader!” Paul replies, and Tord wrinkles his nose when he hears someone screaming in the background. “Reinforcements were sent, we’re taking care of them right now.”

 

“Well hurry up!”

 

“Yes sir!” Patryk replies, and Tord drops his hand and walks over to the corpse a few feet away.

 

He nudges it with the toe of his boot and snorts, rolling his eyes and taking a few steps further into the room. His gaze slides from wall to wall, taking in every detail, and he turns when he hears someone enter the room, instantly raising his gun.

 

“It’s us, Leader!” Paul calls, and Tord lowers the gun.

 

“It’s about time.” He scoffs, levelling them with a flat look. They have the decency to look ashamed of themselves, and he rolls his eyes. “The safe is under our feet.”

 

“What? The intel we received told us it was in the back left corner of this building-” Tord cuts Paul off and shakes his head.

 

He takes a few steps toward the corpse once more, and harshly kicks it aside. Beneath it is a gaudy orange and blue blood-stained rug, which Tord kicks aside as well to reveal a trapdoor in the floor. 

 

“Red Leader, you’re a genius!” Patryk breathes, and Tord smirks.

 

“Open it.” he commands.

 

Both kneel and Paul grasps the handle of the trap door, yanking it open. Tord steps forward, reaching into his jacket to withdraw another gun as he steps down into the dark cellar, Paul and Patryk following mere seconds behind him. When they reach the foot of the stairs Tord signals for his men to fall behind and wait for him. He walks forward, guns in his hands, and the lights flick on a moment later. Tord’s target is standing mere feet in front of them, the safe behind his legs. 

 

“Ah, Monsieur Tord.” he drawls, and Tord scowls. “I was wondering when you would be arriving.” he chuckles humorlessly and Tord rolls his eyes. “It is a shame that you will not be leaving.”

 

He lifts a gun and points it at Tord, and the man remains completely passive. 

 

“Au revoir.” Tord whispers, and the lights go out.

 

\------------------

 

“Red Leader,” Paul begins as he and Patryk rush into the room, pausing only to close the door to their leaders chambers. Tord looks up and raises an eyebrow, and both stop mere inches from his desk and salute. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

 

“Of course.” Tord nods, gesturing for the man to carry on. 

 

Both drop their salutes and share a glance, and this time it’s Patryk that speaks.

 

“Stevenson was caught leaving the file room.” He tells the man, and Tord stiffens.

 

“Stevenson doesn’t have clearance for that area.” He growls, and both nod. “The only ones with clearance to that room arethe three of us.” 

 

“We think perhaps Miss Stein shut down the systems long enough to get him in and back out with what he was after.” Paul informs him, and Tord nods, resting his elbows on the desk and tenting his fingers. 

 

“What did he take?” he asks eventually, and both clearly hesitate. 

 

“The folders on your old housemates.” 

 

Tord flies out of his chair so fast that it’s propelled backward and into the wall, and his hands slam down onto the desk.

 

“Where is he!?” he demands, and both flinch away with wide eyes.

 

“He- We aren’t sure sir. Miss Stein cut the cameras, he could be anywhere in the base.”

 

“Or.. Not in the base.” Patryk reluctantly adds, and Tord sees red.

 

“Bring him to me!” he roars, “Search every room until you find him!”

 

“Yes, sir!” both salute before turning and scrambling out of the room.

 

Tord grimaces and stoops, grabbing his pistol from his desk drawer. Without hesitation he leaps over his desk and takes off out the door.

 

\-------------------------------

 

“Stevenson!” he cries as he kicks open the door leading to the roof, and said man whirls to face him. 

 

The helicopter behind him starts up, propellers whirring to life, and through the class Tord can see Miss Stein, as well as Jones and Rogers. He grimaces, and Stevenson chuckles.

 

“You’re too late!” he calls as he steps backwards toward the open door of the chopper. “You lose!”

 

“What are you going to do with those files!?” Tord snarls, and the man laughs harder.

 

“Exploit your weakness. I’m sure you’ll hear about it on the news; it’s going to be messy!”

 

Tord feels his stomach drop, paralyzing him on the spot as the helicopter lifts off the ground. His mind goes blank as terror briefly consumes him, feeling dizzy at the idea of his friends being killed- and all because of him.

 

No. No, this wasn't happening! He wouldn't let it!

 

He grits his teeth and takes off running, chasing after the helicopter, heart pounding in his chest, and when he reaches the edge of the roof he leaps. 

 

Time seems to slow down as he reaches for the chopper, and he swallows the sick feeling in his stomach when his fingers catch the support bar hanging from the side of it. He lifts the gun to his lips, biting down on the barrel of it to free his other hand so he can pull himself up. He grunts and his muscles strain as he hauls himself up into the vehicle, breathing heavily from behind clenched teeth. 

 

When he manages to get inside Stevenson is looking out the front window of the chopper, and Miss Stein is looking out the other side, down toward the roof; probably looking for Tord. He rips the gun from between his clenched teeth as he approaches, and without a beat of hesitation he kicks her out of the helicopter.

 

She shrieks as she plummets toward the ground, and the other three people whirl to face him in shock. He watches, not looking away until she hits the pavement and he can see blood spilling across the concrete. 

 

“You.” Stevenson growls, and he waves his hand in dismissal when Jones and Rogers move as if to help him. “Stay put,” he tells them. “I’ve got this under control.”

 

“Aye, sir.” They reply, and Stevenson takes a step toward Tord, smirking when the short and clearly livid man raises his gun.

 

He looks down at Tord as he approaches, and is impressed when Tord doesn’t even flinch. He parts his lips to speak, and is caught off guard when Tord surges forward, the butt of his pistol connecting with the side of Stevenson’s face. He cries out, and Tord’s free hand slams into the other side of his face.

 

“Give me the files!” he snarls, and Stevenson chuckles, kicking Tord away. 

 

Tord hits the back wall of the chopper and grunts, but is back on his feet immediately, teeth bared in a scowl.

 

“You’ll have to pry ‘em from my cold dead fingers.” he replies, and Tord rushes forward again.

 

Stevenson stoops as if to catch him around the waist, and thusly is unprepared when Tord leaps clean over his arms, winding up in the cockpit. He whirls to face Stevenson, hands planting themselves on the backs of the pilot and co-pilot seats, and when Stevenson turns he jumps up and kicks both his legs out, connecting sharply with the man’s stomach.

 

He grunts and stumbles back, and Tord’s hand shoots out and grabs the length of rope hanging from the back of the pilot’s seat. Stevenson stands but Tord is already running toward him, and the large man doesn’t have time to react before a length of rope is wound around his neck. He cries out and the sound chokes off when Tord yanks the rope tight, placing his foot in the middle of Stevenson’s back to brace himself as he pulls on the rope.

 

Stevenson loses consciousness, and Tord releases him; he has better things in mind for him.

 

He grabs the rope and uses it to bind the man’s hands, tying him to one of the seats before he turns his attention to the pilots. He steps through the door and before either can react he shoots Jones between the eyes. Rogers stands as Jones’ corpse slumps forward onto the controls, and Tord grabs his headphones and wraps the cord around his neck, tightening it before his hand slips to the back of his head and he slams the man’s head down onto the control panel.

 

Rogers cries out, and Tord lifts his head briefly before slamming it back down. He does this again, and again, until Rogers’ cries stop and blood is painting the control panel. 

 

Once this is done he flicks the autopilot on, and he takes a seat in front of Stevenson.

 

Time passes slowly as Tord waits for the man to wake, sharpening the blade of his knife as he waits. Finally, after nearly an hour, Stevenson’s eyes flutter open. He groans and struggles against his restraints immediately. 

 

“Where are we?” he asks, and Tord’s voice is a bored monotone when he replies.

 

“Near the mountains.”

 

Stevenson’s gaze falls upon him and he scowls, narrowing his eyes.

 

“What the-”

 

“Where are the files?” Tord interrupts, standing and approaching the bound man, knife held firmly in his hand. 

 

“Fuck you!” he spits, and Tord’s hand flies forward, burying the blade deep into Stevenson’s stomach. He screams, and Tord grits his teeth.

 

“Where. Are. The files.” he punctuates each word by pushing the knife harder, tearing it free at the end of his sentence. 

 

“Go to hell! I’m not telling you an-” he breaks off into another scream when the blade is thrust into his stomach again, a few inches to the left of the original wound. 

 

“Where are the files?!” he roars, this time twisting the knife before he wrenches it free, and tears pour down Stevenson’s face even as he shakes his head.

 

“You’ll have to kill me!” 

 

“Don’t think I won’t!” Tord replies, pressing the edge of the blade to the underside of his chin and forcing him to look up. “Where the fuck are my files, you miserable piece of shit.”

 

Stevenson’s reply is to spit blood into Tords face, laughter bubbling up at the undisguised fury in the Norwegians expression. He steps back for a moment, and a moment later he swings around and harshly kicks the man in the face. He grunts and his head jerks to the side, and Tord kneels, pressing the blade against his throat. Stevenson swallows, and the pressure makes the blade draw blood.

 

“I’m going to ask you one more fucking time.” he begins, “Where are my files?”

 

Stevenson’s gaze flicks briefly to the cockpit despite his best efforts, and it’s enough for Tord. He grins and turns, slipping into the cockpit, and within a moment he’s located the files hidden under the copilots seat. He walks back toward Stevenson, tucking the files into his sweater, and the man scowls up at him. 

 

He grabs the parachute hanging on the wall and straps it on before he approaches the bloodied man once more. He kneels, gaze locking with the man’s, and he feels rage consume him at the utter defiance in Stevenson’s gaze. Without a second of hesitation he plunges the knife into him again, and again, and again, repeating the process until his chest is little more than a bloodied pulp. Stevenson is somehow still alive, blood dripping from his lips, and Tord turns the auto pilot off and aims toward the mountains. Tord approaches the door, files securely tucked into his sweater, and he pauses briefly when Stevenson speaks.

 

“Why do you care so much?” he rasps. Tord contemplates ignoring him for a moment.

 

“I guess since you’re going to die, I can tell you.” he replies, glancing to face him. “I love them.”

 

With that he leaps from the helicopter. As he falls he looks back and shoots out the blades of the chopper. Within seconds it goes down, and the explosion that follows delights him to the core. 

 

\-----------

 

“Нам нужно оставить.” Tord tells his team as they storm through the hallways, having just returned to the base, and Paul and Patryk share a glance.

 

“Зачем?” Patryk asks, unease settling in his stomach at the looks they’re receiving from the people surrounding them.

 

“Мы больше не безопасно здесь.” He replies, halting rather suddenly when a large man steps into his path with his arms folded over his chest.

 

“People only talk in other languages ven zey have somezing to hide.” the large man snarls, and Tord bares his teeth.

 

“Watch the tone you’re using with me.” Tord warns, “Now step aside, soldier.”

 

The man moves, but it’s to step closer to Tord.

 

“Vhat is the secret, boss?” 

 

“Step aside!” he commands, and when the man doesn’t budge Tord grasps a large knife from the inside of his jacket and swings it upwards, the blade stabbing through the bottom of the man’s jaw and up into his brain. Tord yanks the knife free and the man drops limply to the ground, noises of surprise sounding from the other occupants in the room. 

 

“Sir-” one begins, and he swiftly cuts them off.

 

“Unless you all want to end up like him, learn some fucking respect!” 

 

Everyone in the room salutes, and he briskly leaves, Paul and Patryk on his heels.

 

“Permission to speak, sir?” Paul asks, and Tord nods.

 

“Granted.”

 

“Was that really necessary?” he asks, and Tord whirls to face him. Paul rushes to explain. “I just do not know if it sends a good message to the others!” he elaborates, and Tord relaxes slightly. “Especially after Stevenson’s mutiny-”

 

“I no longer care what appearance I have.” he tells them honestly. “The three of us are leaving.”

 

“Why?”

 

“The Red Army is corrupted. We’ve been infiltrated by the people we’re supposed to be murdering. I no longer know who to trust.” he looks at them, and places a hand on their shoulders. “Except you two.”

 

Paul and Patryk practically glow with pride, wide grins on their faces.

 

“We would never betray you, Red Leader!” They parrot, and he nods. 

 

“I know.” he turns once more and leads them out of the room. “We leave in three days. I suggest you stock up.” he pauses and turns to face them. “Thank you for picking me up. Stay safe, I don’t know who else had the same ideas as Stevenson.”

 

\------------

 

“Tom…” It’s whispered in the dead of night. 

 

Tord is seated atop the shack he inhabits with his boys in the middle of the woods. The boys are out, probably fucking somewhere out of hearing range of Tord, so the leader has some time to reminisce. He hates it. 

 

Tord hates the stab of regret he feels when he thinks of his friends. He hates how he feels when he remembers the nights of passion spent with Tom, the feel and taste of Edd’s lips against his own, and the single night he spend with Matt before he left to be with his boys. 

 

A sigh escapes his lips, and he lights up a cigar, gaze falling upon the moon. His heart aches, and he longs to be held once more by those he loves. He wishes he could be with them again. Wishes he’d never left.

 

But then where would his boys be? 

 

“Ta deg sammen.” He whispers bitterly to himself as he feels tears well up in his eyes. He furiously blinks them away. “Du gjorde det du hadde å gjøre!”

 

With shaking hands he pulls out his cellphone and powers it on, his left hand shifting to angrily rub away the tears slipping down his cheeks. As soon as the phone powers on texts flood in, and he feels his heart clench. He takes a deep breath, and selects Matt’s message thread.

 

**_Matt:_ ** Are you sure you have to go?

**_Matt:_ ** I hope you’re okay, wherever you are   
**_Matt:_ ** I miss you

 

He closes it and clicks to Edds, and there’s many more messages awaiting him, spanning from the day he left up until yesterday morning. 

 

**_Edd:_ ** I’ll miss you..   
**_Edd:_ ** I hope you’ll be happy and safe where you’re going   
**_Edd:_ ** Can you come home yet…?

**_Edd:_ ** I miss you

**_Edd:_ ** Sometimes I lie awake at night and think about that kiss. You tasted like cigars and cherries. Why did it take you so long to kiss me? We could’ve had so many more.   
**_Edd:_ ** I understand why you had to leave. That doesn’t mean I have to like that you’re gone.

 

He closes the thread as more tears slip down his cheeks, and he clicks on Toms. Theres one from a few weeks after he left, and one from about 3 hours ago. 

 

**_Tom:_ ** I keep hoping I’m going to wake up and you’ll still be here, or I’ll walk into the kitchen and you’ll be sitting at the table eating cereal and laugh at my bedhead. I miss you. And I love you, so much.

**_Tom:_ ** It’s crazy how fast time goes, until suddenly years have passed and you’re not really sure where they went. How quickly you can lose someone you love. Tord… Please come home. We need you. I need you. Haven’t you been gone long enough? Please.. I love you.

 

Tord closes closes the message thread and locks his phone. For a second he considers throwing it, but a second after that it’s held tenderly to his chest as he weeps.

 

\---------------

 

“Where are we going?” Patryk asks softly, taking a seat beside his leader. His hand slips down to grasp Tord’s hand, and Tord allows him to lace their fingers together. “The men are coming. Paul gives us ten hours until they reach us. Twelve tops.”

 

Tord sighs, and it’s a lifeless and heavy sound. His eyes shut and refuse to open again as he leans against Patryk’s side. Patryk sighs softly and squeezes his leader's hand and waits for instruction.

 

“You two shouldn’t have come with me.” It’s whispered, and Patryk feels his heart twist. “They’re trying to kill me, and I dragged you down with me.”

 

“Red Leader-” he breaks off when Tord flinches, and the man clears his throat before attempting again. “Sir, we don’t know that they wouldn’t have tried to kill myself and Paul as well.”

 

“He’s right.” Paul agrees, coming up beside them. Tord doesn’t react. “Everyone in the Red Army knew that we were your closest allies. They probably would have captured and tortured us for information on your whereabouts.”

 

“Which you wouldn’t have know.” he mutters, and Paul sighs softly.

 

“Would they have believed us?” he counters, and Tord falls silent.

 

\----------------

 

“Peru.” Tord says a few hours later, earning twin looks of confusion. 

 

He marches into the room and slaps a map down onto the table, looking strangely triumphant as he does so. Paul sets down the bowl of eggs he was mixing, and Patryk pushes the frying pan off the burner so they can both walk over, curious eyes scanning the map.

 

“What?” Paul finally asks, and Tord glances up at them, holding each of their gazes for a second before he looks back down. 

 

“We’ll go to Peru.” He tells them, and they share a look of confusion. 

 

“Why?”

 

“Exactly.” he nods, “Why?” his smirk widens as he presses on. “If you two can’t figure out why I want to go there, what are the chances that any of the others can?” Realization begins dawning on their faces, and he chuckles. “We can go and hide in the Peruvian mountains for a while, and use that time to regroup and come up with a plan that will get us out of this mess.”

 

“That could work,” Paul begins, nodding his head as he scrutinizes his leaders markings on the map. “Provided we leave soon.”

 

“How fast can you be ready to leave?” Tord replies, and both straighten up and salute him.

 

“Immediately.”

 

He grasps the map and rolls it back up, gently tapping both on the forehead with it.

 

“At ease, boys.” He glances toward the stove, and then back to them. “Finish what you were doing, and I’ll gather some supplies. As soon as we finish eating, we run.”

 

\-------------

 

As far as plans go, this was a successful one. The trek to the Peruvian mountains was a long one, but one they made without being located by the army following them. They even managed to find a large cave mostly shielded from the wind that would be perfect for them to hide in, and the supplies they brought with them would be enough to sustain them for a few months.

 

But days ticked by, days turning into weeks, turning into months. Eventually, the food ran out. 

 

“Boss you-” Paul breaks off as a shudder wracks his body, clutching his threadbare jacket tighter to his body. “You can’t go down there without us.” 

 

“Watch me.” he growls, guilt gnawing at his stomach as he glances back at Patryk. The man hasn’t moved in days, his lips a sickly blue. “I’m going to find a town, and I’m going to bring back medicine for him, and food, and-” he forces himself to stop, looking away determinedly. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

“But sir, we can’t protect you!” Paul tries, and Tord shakes his head and heads toward the entrance of the cave where a makeshift door is shoved in place. 

 

“I’ll be back.” He says, glancing back at his soldiers. Patryk coughs and Paul visibly crumbles, turning and rushing to his lover's side. 

 

Tord slips out while he’s distracted, and begins the long trek down the mountain.

 

It takes him just over twenty-four hours to make it down the mountain and to the town he’d left for, his steps staggered and tired as he pushes himself to the limit and struggles to stay on his feet. His lips are turning blue, hands trembling from the cold as he pushes open the door to a shop. 

 

“Oh dios, señor!” A woman cries, rushing from behind the counter and toward him, warm hands reaching to steady him. “Qué te ha pasado?”

 

“Perder,” he forces out, eyelids growing heavy as warmth assaults his frozen body. “Necesito ayuda por favor. Alimentos, agua , ropa- !” he breaks off, a coughing fit assaulting him. “Mi amigo se está muriendo, tiene la medicina?” 

 

“Dónde está, lo podemos encontrar-” Tord cuts her off.

 

“No!” he practically roars, dropping to his knees when she cries out in surprise and jumps away. 

 

“Usted está enfermo! Estoy llamando a las autoridades!”

 

Tord grimaces.

 

“I was hoping we could keep this civil.” he mumbles, pushing himself upright. He stands, standing tall and strong as the woman screams and fumbles for the phone. Tord reaches into his pocket and draws out a pistol, pointing it at the woman. She instantly freezes, terror shining in her brown eyes. “Ponga todo lo que pedí en una bolsa.” he commands.

 

“Señor-” she tries, and he practically growls. 

 

“Ahora!” he cries, and she flinches, trembling where she stands. “Si se llama a alguien, te mataré!”

 

Tears are glistening in her eyes as she scrambles to gather what he asked for. The first things into the bag are several first aid kits, followed by every pill and medicinal syrup she could get her hands on. A jug of water follows, and he takes the now full bag. In the other back she puts food and coats, and in the backpack on his back she places more food and blankets. He takes the bags, and she tucks another jug of water into each of his hands. 

 

His muscles are screaming in protest from the load, but all he can think of is Paul and Patryk freezing to death up the mountain. He straightens up, and she meets his gaze for the first time since he had taken out the gun.

 

“Tienes miedo.” she whispers in surprise, and he steps away.

 

“Gracias por el suministro, señorita.” he mumbles before turning and taking off into the cold as fast as his feet can carry him.

 

\------------

 

The trip back up the mountain takes just barely under twenty-two hours, his fear driving him faster up the mountain that could possibly be healthy. He knocks on the makeshift door, and after a moment Paul pulls it aside. His eyes go wide in surprise.

 

“Tord,” he breathes, voice trembling, and Tord feels a flash of surprise; Paul has never called him by his first name before. 

 

“Paul-” he barely gets the word out before Paul is in his arms. 

 

The embrace is short, and when he pulls back Tord can see how sick he looks. His chest aches, and he holds up one of the jugs of water. Paul helps him inside, closing the door behind him, and Tord drops the bags and jugs in his hands. His fingers throb, and he grunts in pain when Paul gently helps him take off his backpack.

 

“I got food.” Tord murmurs, “and medicine.” His gaze flicks up and locks on Patryk. “How is he?”

 

“Not well.” he replies, fishing through the bag to grab various pills and syrups.

 

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

 

Paul doesn’t answer as he rushes over to Patryk’s side, and Tord doesn’t speak again, instead choosing to silently unpack the items he had taken. Paul returns a few minutes later, and Tord looks him up and down, grasping the bag of clothes and dragging it closer, holding out a thick winter jacket. 

 

“Wear it.” he commands, pressing on at the others visible hesitation. “I got one for Patryk as well.” he fishes it out and slowly makes his way over to his friend.

 

His fingertips brush Patryk’s hand and he swallows thickly, the appendage ice cold despite Paul’s efforts. He carefully dresses Patryk in the coat, and Paul approaches and holds out one of four blankets that the woman had managed to fit in the bags.

 

“Two of them are thermal.” Paul says, glancing down at his lover with undisguised fear. “We should set them up and use our body heat to warm him.”

 

Tord nods, knowing he’s right. 

 

“Put one of the thermal ones on the ground, the other can go on the top to block out the air.” he says, and Paul nods and slips away.

 

When Paul finishes spreading out the blankets he sits back, noticing something rather convenient.

 

“Sir,” he calls “The thermal blankets have zippers. I should zip them together, yes?”

 

“Yes.” Tord agrees, stooping and slipping his arms under Patryk. 

 

He turns and walks over to the area Paul had set up the blankets in, which is the area furthest from the door and thusly the most shielded from the wind, and Paul looks up at him. He pulls the blankets back, and Tord crouches to lay Patryk down. They swiftly strip him down and tuck him into the bed, before stripping down themselves and climbing in next to him, Tord on his left, Paul on the right.

 

They zip the thermal blankets as much as they can, using their jackets as pillows as they snuggle themselves as close to Patryk as they can, hearts twisting at hold cold he is.

 

“Please hold on, love.” Paul whispers, and Tord is silent, guilt gnawing once again at his stomach.

 

Tord manages to fall asleep, exhaustion finally winning out over fear, and he drifts to sleep with Patryk held tightly in his arms. It’s only a few minutes later though, that Paul is screaming, and Tord is lurching upwards. 

 

“What?” he cries urgently, but Paul doesn’t answer him.

 

“Patryk!” he cries frantically, hands shaking as they flit across the man’s body, unsure what to do or how to help. Tears are slipping down his cheeks, “Patryk please!”

 

“What is going on, soldier!?” Tord demands, and Paul finally turns to face him.

 

“He doesn’t have a pulse.” he replies, voice cracking, and Tord feels his blood run cold.

 

He pushes Paul gently to the side and grasps Patryk’s wrist, fingers pressed to it to await some sign the man was alive.

 

“What are you doing?” Paul asks, wiping his cheeks. “I already checked for his pulse.”

 

“Tom got hypothermia once,” Tord says instead. “We thought it would be fun to go ice fishing, so the four of us went down to the lake. Tom and I got in an argument, and he stormed off. He fell through the ice. He almost didn’t make it.” their gazes lock, and Tord feels a gently pulse against his fingers.

 

“What?” Paul whispers, and Tord removes his fingers.

 

“When someone gets hypothermia, their heartbeat can slow to almost undetectable speeds.” he tells the man, “Patryk has a pulse. Grab the heating packs the woman sent, please.”

 

Paul numbly shuffles out of the bed and grasps the packets, bringing them back to Tord and climbing back into the bed. Tord tears one open and hands it to him.

 

“Spread this gel on his thighs and groin, and some on his toes.” he tells him. 

 

Paul mutely nods and does what Tord wants as Tord smears another packet of the gel across Patryk’s chest and neck. His fingertips are next, followed by his face. Once complete Tord tucks the rest away and resumes his position nestled to Patryk. Paul does the same.

 

“Those will warm him, and his heartbeat should gradually grow stronger the warmer he gets. Wake me if you think something is going wrong.”

 

“Thank you.” Paul whispers.

 

Tord doesn’t reply. 

 

\---------------------

 

When Tord wakes up, shaky fingers are gently playing with his hair. He groans tiredly, and Paul chuckles.

 

“How did you sleep?”

 

“Fine.” Tord replies, “How’s Patryk?”

 

“I’m okay.” the voice is weak and raspy from lack of use, but Tord instantly feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. 

 

“Good to have you back, soldier.” he smiles warmly, and Patryk smiles before parting his lips so Paul can feed him another spoonful of stew.

 

“There’s another can set aside for you, if you’re hungry. I heated it up a couple minutes ago.”

 

“Thank you.” he murmurs, reaching for it immediately. As soon as it’s open he begins eagerly scarfing down the contents, finishing in record time. Paul sniggers. 

 

“Hungry?” He teases. Tord sticks his tongue out at the man.

 

\------------

 

Days slip by, and Patryk’s health steadily improves with the almost overbearing care that Paul and Tord provide. Paul doesn't notice the change in Tord’s behaviour, too concerned for the wellbeing of his lover, but Patryk notices almost immediately and decides to confront him the moment Paul is gone. 

 

He gets his chance a few weeks later. 

 

“You're sure you'll be okay?” Paul asks worriedly, and Patryk smiles and nods. 

 

“I'll be fine. Sir is here, remember?”

 

Paul purses his lips but nods, leaning forward to gently kiss his partner. When their lips part he turns and slips out the makeshift door. Once he’s gone, Patryk’s attention shifts to his leader, who is sat by the makeshift fire across the cave. He approaches slowly and takes a seat next to him, and Tord offers him part of the blanket, smiling when the man accepts.

 

“Why haven’t you been eating?” Patryk asks, and Tord looks down. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”

 

“I had hoped.” he admits, uneasily meeting Patryk’s gaze. Patryk frowns and tilts his head, but before he can voice his concern his leader is speaking once more. “I’ll be okay, anyways. It’s only a slight cutback, you need not worry yourself.”

 

“But sir-” he tries to protest, but he falls silent at the stern look Tord gives him. He swallows and hangs his head. “Yes, sir.” he murmurs.

 

Tord sighs and places his hand gently upon Patryk’s knee, and the two fall into silence.

 

\----------------

 

Sitting outside in the snow becomes something of a habit for Tord. A habit that Patryk and Paul hate; it gets his clothes wet, and if he keeps it up he’s sure to get a cold. But as loneliness creeps in and doubts plague his mind, his solace is sitting outside 

 

and watching the moon. 

 

He wonders, sometimes, if maybe the others watch the stars and think of him, too. Do they still miss him? Would they still want him to come home?

 

Not for the first time he remembers his last moments with his friends. He remembers the taste of cola upon Edd’s surprisingly smooth lips, the taste of cinnamon upon Matt’s chest, the taste of Smirnoff as his tongue battled Tom’s.

 

Once again, he feels a stab of regret, and his eyes water as he stares up at the moon.

 

“Jeg har brukt så mange somre, håper noe skulle begynne.. Jeg trodde at jeg var over deg, men her er jeg igjen…” Tord sighs and looks down. “ Hva kan ha vært..”

 

\---------------

 

As the time goes by Tord isolates himself more and more, eating less and less until he's barely eating enough to survive. Paul has noticed, but knows to keep his mouth shut lest he make his leader angry. Patryk tries to help, but there's only so much one person can do. Eventually, Tord orders him to stop and he obeys. 

 

“Permission to speak freely?” Paul asks one night after Patryk has fallen asleep, his words soft, tone barely concealing his concern. Tord glances over at him and looks him over, debating whether or not he should humor his soldier. Eventually he mutely nods, and Paul sighs softly, taking a seat beside Tord. “Is this about your friends?”

 

“What?” Tord asks, genuinely surprised with that the man has chosen to ask. 

 

“Are you doing this to yourself because of them?”

 

Tord grimaces. 

 

“No.” He replies, and Paul can tell it's not a lie. He nods slightly, and Tord presses on. “You and Patryk shouldn't be here. You're being hunted because of me.”

 

“Sir we’ve been over this.” Paul reminds him, placing his hands on his leaders knee. He feels a stab of fear when he realizes just how much weight Tord has lost, and feels his throat tighten with emotion. “They would capture us and torture us if they ever found us.” He forces out, and Tord looks down briefly. 

 

“I know.” He sighs. His gaze falls upon the wall of the cave, scrutinizing the ice and stone, and he sighs once more- a pained and weary sound that scares Paul to the core. “Perhaps I should hand myself over.”

 

“And get killed?!” Paul cries incredulously, and Tord whirls to shoot him a stern glare. 

 

“The alternative brings you both with me!”

 

“I’d rather die with you than as a coward that let his leader hand himself over.” He growls, and Tord scowls and looks away. 

 

“Dismissed.” 

 

Paul hesitates; should he obey his leaders foolish command, or fight and risk losing his leaders respect? Eventually he sighs and stands, turning and briskly storming away from Tord. He doesn’t stop until he reaches Patryk, discarding most of his clothes to climb into bed next to him. 

 

“Paul?” Patryk mumbles sleepily, eyes fluttering open when he feels movement next to him. 

 

“Shh,” Paul hushes gently, gathering Paul into his arms and pulling him close. 

 

Patryk lets out a low hum and nuzzles closer, eyes slipping shut once more. They fall into silence, and just when Paul thinks Patryk has drifted off once more the other man speaks.

 

“Tord is dying,” he whispers. “Isn’t he?”

 

Paul lets out a heavy sigh.

 

“Yeah.”

 

\------------------------

 

Tord sighs softly, and it's a tired and painful sound. He shakes his head and squares his shoulders- tries to be the leader he used to be. The leader he wishes he still was. Perhaps his days in charge of an army weren't the happiest, but he had his health, and he didn't have to worry about his boys. 

 

His gaze shifts to fall upon Paul and Patryk, and he feels sick to his stomach; it's his fault they're stuck out here, in the freezing mountains of Peru instead of somewhere warm and safe. 

 

If it weren't for him they'd be happy, safe, warm, in love, safe, warm, safe, warm- but they're here. Living off the slim rations they can steal from the village and carry back up the mountain. Wearing the same clothes they've been wearing for months, only able to wash them when they stumble upon someone in the village that has the tools necessary. 

 

Not for the first time he wishes he hadn't befriended them, and grown to love them. They could have left him alone to die, and the rest of their comrades wouldn't be out for their blood. But they charmed their way into his heart, and he knows if they were captured he'd surrender without question. 

 

“Sir?” Patryk asks softly, sitting down next to the shivering man that's slowly becoming little more than skin and bones. “I'm worried about you.”

 

Tord turns to face him, and can't help but smile. He's sure it comes across as slightly terrifying, but Patryk doesn't flinch. He instead inches closer, leaning over to rest his cheek upon Tord's shoulder. Tord welcomes the contact. He remembers days when he and Edd would watch Saturday morning cartoons in a similar position; snuggled up on the couch with Edd’s head resting gently upon Tord's shoulder. 

 

“You don't need to worry, Patryk.” He says finally, and Patryk’s slim fingers wind around Tord's arm, clutching the appendage close as he shuffles impossibly closer. “I'm okay-”

 

“No you're not.” Patryk interrupts. He knows he's forbidden from interrupting the man beside him, but Tord shows no signs of anger so he presses on. “You're starving yourself.”

 

It's not a question. Tord sighs and looks away. 

 

“I'm not starving myself, soldier. I'm-”

 

“Sir.” He says firmly, and when their gazes lock he falters briefly. They maintain eye contact, and Patryk searches the man’s gaze for a trace of anger. There is none. “You can't keep doing this. Paul and I- we need you.”

 

Anger flashes in Tord's eyes and he bares his teeth. 

 

“Is this what you need?!” He hisses, gesturing to their frozen and barren surroundings. He struggles to his feet so he can glare down at the man. “We’re all freezing to death and half starved, because I couldn't control my men!”

 

“Sir-”

 

“It's become very clear to me, Patryk, that I need you more than you need me!”

 

Before Patryk can say another word Tord turns and storms out of the cave, disappearing into the snowstorm outside. 

 

\---------

 

It's been three days and he still hasn't gone back to the cave. He wonders if maybe he should turn himself in. Perhaps if he said he held Patryk and Paul hostage they wouldn't be killed. The gun strapped to his hip feels like it weighs a million pounds, and he can no longer feel his fingers or toes. His stomach feels as if it's digesting itself, and his muscles ache with every step he takes. 

 

He finds another cave, significantly smaller than the one he's been residing in with his boys for months, and he curls in on himself as soon as he's shielded from the wind. 

 

All at once he feels tears welling in his eyes, and he can't seem to hold them back. They begin slipping down his cheeks, and he curls in tighter on himself as a sob escapes him. One sob transitions into another, and eventually he’s bawling, form shuddering with the wrenching force of his sobs. 

 

He wishes once again that he didn’t have to feel this way; things would be so much easier for everyone involved if he wasn’t around. He wishes he could be dead. He wishes he had let the Red Army kill him when they had wanted to. Maybe then Paul and Patryk could have gotten away. Been safe.

 

A shaking hand reaches for his gun, and he idly wonders if Paul and Patryk would be able to find his corpse. If they did, would they have the sense to tell the people after them that they had killed Tord themselves?

 

He feels despair and loneliness clutching at his very being, and his chest aches with each passing moment. He misses Tom. He misses Edd and Matt, too. He misses living with them, and how easy things used to be.

 

He wishes he’d never left.

 

Tord wonders if perhaps they would forgive him if they knew of the sins he’s committed. He wonders if he’ll ever see them again.

 

Numb fingers grasp the gun and he draws it toward his head, tears blurring his vision. He clicks the safety off, and presses the barrel of the gun to his temple.

 

But he can’t do it.

 

His finger can’t seem to pull the trigger. He doesn’t want to die without seeing Edd one more time- without hearing Tom’s laugh, or feeling Matt’s hand in his own. He misses them. He doesn’t want to leave Paul and Patryk alone in the cave to starve. He drops the gun into the snow and curls tighter in on himself, a gently sniffling sob escaping him. 

 

He stays there the rest of the night, wide awake, watching the snow blow past the entrance to the cave. His mind is plagued with thoughts of the people he’s murdered- the people he left behind- the lives he’s ruined.

  
It keeps him up.


End file.
